11:24
by Lucy Pryde
Summary: 11:24-- One of him, one of me, two of us, and we'd last forever. That's what I thought.


**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns.**

His lips on mine were almost like a slice of sun. Their warmth was intoxicating, their surface slightly cracked from the bitter winter air. His arms were safety as they wrapped around me, protecting me from harm. Hurtful words, dark feelings and sharp knives couldn't make their way though the solid cage of warm iron. He was my haven, my rock.

Sometimes, Dad would stay out late with the rest of the Elders. I'd worry about him, but Mom would shrug it off and say that it was nothing. I knew better. Something was happening, and I didn't like it. But Sam could understand me; he loved me. Sam Uley wanted to be with me forever, and that was all that mattered.

We would run down the beach together in the rain, our hands clasped together. I'd worry that the frigid beads of water would separate us, but he always held on tightly, his big hand making mine seem like a baby's.

We'd go out on Friday nights, driving all the way to Seattle in his beat-up truck just so we could go to a drive-in movie and lay in the back of his truck, completely still except for his lips moving softly next to my ear, promising me forever. My heart seemed to burst from my chest with every breath I took, and I'd think to myself, _"What have I done to deserve this?_" How could anyone be this happy, this in love?

I remembered the day he'd first told me "forever". It was 11:24 at night, and I was only fifteen years old. We were sitting in his truck when he glanced at the clock and pointed out the time.

"It's 11:24, Leah," he whispered, his voice rugged and deep. I could melt at the sound of it.

"What's so special about 11:24, Sam?" I wondered. He smiled.

"Well, 11:24 is made out of two number ones, one number two, and one number four. If we put ourselves in there, it makes something."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"The way I see it, it's one of you, one of me, the two of us, and we'll last forever."

When he'd said that, I'd leaned over and kissed him passionately as hard as I could. I couldn't tell him how much I loved him; I couldn't fathom the depth of my affection for my beloved. From that day on, whenever 11:24 rolled around, I'd always smile.

He would smile at me, his teeth flashing white against his perfect, russet skin. His eyes would lock with mine, seeming to scream, "I love you!" as loud as they could.

It was perfect; he was perfect.

Sometimes we'd have a fight, and I would almost want to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze the life right out of him, but then out of nowhere, he would kiss me. I'd forget about his missing my birthday or our two-year anniversary.

And then it started. He'd stay out late on school nights, ditch school almost all week and then show up on Thursday morning like nothing was wrong. He'd promise me that we'd go to the movie on Friday like always, but then he'd just leave me waiting on the front porch swing with my hands clinging to the chains as if they were my lifeline.

I'd get phone calls in the middle of the night and hear ragged, deep breathing on the other end of the receiver followed by a dial tone, then dead silence. His face looked haggard, his features cast down. He hardly ever smiled, and he never called me "Lee-lee" anymore. It was now "Leah", and I kept feeling like I wasn't special to him anymore. I came in second, and I didn't know what was wrong.

One night I went to his house just as the moon was coming up. I opened his window silently and crept through, sitting on his bed silently. I waited. It was three in the morning before he slipped through the window, his hair in disarray and his clothes nowhere in sight. I shielded my eyes; we had both agreed that we would wait until marriage before we saw each other undressed.

I'll never forget that yelp of surprise and then the steady stream of curses he uttered as he rushed to his bureau to pull on some pants.

He'd asked me what I was doing there, and I'd demanded to know why he had been so distant and so cold lately. I wanted to understand why he wasn't the man I knew, the man that had loved me and promised me forever. He'd just looked away. He said he couldn't tell me. I begged him, promised that I wouldn't tell anyone. I cried. Sam always broke down when I cried, but he just watched the tears streak down my face with an impassive expression that made his warm face look like stone. He was cold and hard, so unlike the Sam I knew. It scared me. Finally, I agreed to not ask any more questions if he'd just tell me he loved me again, and truly mean it. He looked me in the eyes, his face softening into the old Sam.

"I love you, Lee-lee; 11:24." I couldn't resist our long-used inside joke/mushy love statement, so I weakly forgave him, and he promised to try to stay close to me like he had been before. Fridays happened again, and although he wasn't back to his old self, he was much closer. The rift between us was closing slowly but steadily.

My life shattered at 11:24 on a Saturday morning in July.

Earlier that morning, I was carrying a bowl of fruit salad out to the picnic table; it was a big La Push get-together, and Mom was cooking a lot of the food. I came outside to the backyard, surprised to see the sun shining so brightly. The grass looked greener, the sky bluer, and his skin looked brighter. So did hers.

He stood in the middle of the back yard, his hand on her cheek, his gaze locked with Emily's. She was my best friend, my cousin, my sister. He was my love. And they were standing together.

The jealousy flared within me, but I tried to shake it off. It was a friendly gesture, and as soon as Emily saw me, she smiled and walked over to the picnic table, showing me where to put the salad. I shrugged it off; I knew that Sam loved _me_.

That whole day, his eyes were on her. He sat next to me, absently holding my hand, but he only talked to her. He asked her questions about herself, about her school-work, and about everything else. She answered, slightly puzzled, and tried to get him to look back to me. She could sense my discomfort, I think.

Later, I was washing the dishes, scrubbing a bit too hard at a pan that had once held baked beans. I was angry at him, furious, actually. He came up behind me and told me we needed to talk. I whipped around, drying my hands on my jeans as I waited for an explanation.

He looked me in the eyes, his face taking over the cold look that I'd thought was gone for good. He opened his mouth and said quickly, sharply,

"Leah, I can't do this anymore. I'm so sorry." I looked at him, confused.

"What?" I replied, a little too quickly. He couldn't be saying what I thought he was saying; it wasn't possible. There was no way.

"Leah, we're over. I can't be with you. I don't love you like I did anymore. I'm sorry."

I'd stared at him for a minute, completely confused. It clicked. My stomach churned, my eyes filled with tears, and my fists clenched up. His face, once so handsome to me, was repulsive now. I looked away and my eyes settled on the microwave clock. I crumpled to the floor as I read, in blaring red numbers, "11:24."

My heart was so empty, gasping for the love it needed. It needed _him_, but _he_ wasn't there. _He_ didn't want me; I meant nothing to _him_. _His_ smiles, _his_ kisses and promises were all lies. All of the words _he_ had said had been empty, all except for those last few.

They cut like knives, twisting and mutilating my insides like an internal food processor.

_Why_? I wondered angrily as I threw objects at his head. He stood there, unmoving. I threw the things harder, making him bleed. Finally, I was done.

He whispered one more apology as he closed the door behind him, and as the door clicked shut, the reason clicked in my mind. He didn't love me, because he loved _her_. Agony wracked my body, never ceasing as it burned through my core. The fire of loosing him left me an empty shell with nothing but resentment to fuel itself on.

Now, whenever I watch the clock's numbers flash to 11:24, the picture that burns itself into my heart and mind with each breath is not one of love, but one of emptiness. The illustration for those numbers that I had once held dear had changed. It is no longer Sam and I together forever. It is 11:24: one broken heart, one ghost of a girl, and too much pain for her to handle.

**A/N: Tragic and depressing, no?**


End file.
